I should have been born in a more tropical climate, Georgia is steamy and humid, but our winters bore me. We rarely see snow, most days are pretty enough for me to work outside, but our nights are cold with damaging frosts.

I probably shouldn’t complain as one adoptive mom of a large family in Minnesota told me that their ground freezes six feet deep. That is unfathomable to me. I’ve always felt that I wasn’t having fun unless I was sweating.

So I fight a lingering sense of malaise until February, I can still garden; still plant and harvest greens, indeed there’s nearly as much work all winter in preparing the garden beds for next summer.

My kids get antsy pants about the upcoming holidays. We can bluster through Thanksgiving alright as they anticipate the huge spread of food, all the grandchildren coming to play, and an easygoing fun mood overall.

Christmas is another story.

All my children, adopted as older sibling groups, came to me with their memories intact. Memories of drunken holidays, neglect and abuse, drug parties, criminal activity, and staggering neglect gurgle to the surface bursting much like odiferous sulfur bubbles, spewing us unexpectedly, catching us unaware that there was a pending emotional outburst to mar the festivities. You’d think I’d know by now.

Holidays stir up these barely repressed memories, provoking angry explosions and cruddy behavior.

It falls on me to tone it all down, to provide reassurance and to remind them of our past nice holidays. Since I too fight with my own inner dread of cold weather, awful holiday commercialism, and media-spawned, unrealistic hype and expectations, this can be a very tough six weeks for us.

All of it seems to settle down after December 25th, as if the storm has passed, we’ve survived and together as a family and we blearily anticipate spring.

Photo Credit Cindy Bodie